Seemingly under the sway of the Supernal cultist Sentulus, at a secluded alter in the woods, Rosalie Nurin prepares to make a sacrifice of her husband.

I will never know whether it was weakness of character or unhappy circumstance that led Rosalie to betray her family.  Undoubtedly much like Constable Pascal, Vaermina’s cultists got to her through her dreams.  Dreams ignore stone walls and locked doors, they can light up the darkest temperament, and darken light ones.  Following you throughout your day like a shadow, nightmares make many wish not to sleep, whilst the same fear makes others wish not to wake.  Fear is our greatest weakness, and it is what these cultists are taking advantage of.

As for myself, in my sleep I have nightmares, awake I have my thoughts… ever since Coldharbour I am no longer sure which is which.

S.K

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These spiteful creatures are often employed by their Daedric masters solely for their boundless appetite for wreck, bane and havoc.  Like a Nord whelp given his first hammer, they seemingly take arrant delight in the destruction they beget.  Their infatuation for fire makes the wood and thatch of the Breton farmstead particularly vulnerable to their mischief and gambol.

A common misconception is that these gibbering miscreants are cowardly by nature; whilst in pack they are undoubtedly boldest, when confronted alone however, I have yet to encounter a single scamp that fled from fight.

S.K

Long before I reach Nurin’s farm I spy many thick columns of dark smoke snaking into the uncommonly blue skies above Stormhaven.  As I draw nearer the stench of smoulder befouls the air, and I begin to taste soot and ash upon the wind.  As I reach the road north of Koeglin Village I see for the first time collapsed roofs sitting precariously atop the crumbling cinder ruin of barn and shed.

Blackened soil, charred crop, and gnawed carcass of livestock consummate the bleak vista of devastation.  And the very pestilence that wrecked such desolation lingers still.  Daedra, ever gluttonous for mortal despair frolic like lambs in spring garden through their field of defilement and repugnant deed.

S.K

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As I engage with the Supernal cultist in battle, I am taken aback to discover she wields a healers staff as skilfully as any I have met.  It takes much discipline and knowledge to harness the raw magicka that flows through each of us, and by force of will, shape it into spell and physical effect.  But to become a truly skilled healer, one needs not only to be able to express empathy, but also the ability to focus it.

I wonder how one so blessed with such a capability to sustain and support others has strayed so far down this darkened path that her once honest and honourable gifts are now corrupted to feed befouled purpose.

There are some that believe that one day alchemy may surpass the school of restoration magic, and we might eventually garner the same effects from a bottle brought from any flea-bitten Baandari peddler stall, as are to be archived from all those hours of training and hard work.  Until that time comes however, let us shield our healers from unclean influence, lest they are to share the same ill fate as this wretch.

S.K

With the lighthouse restored, finally it is time to answer Dame Dabienne’s plea and head north to Alcaire Castle.  That night however I was only to reach as far as the Vanne family Farm, finding it beset by what up until now I had thought to be but vile rumour and bruit.  A betrayal of Tamriel; humans working side by side with Daedra to murder, enslave and work ritual upon their former neighbours, friends and countryman.

I rescue a monk from fetter, a Brother Perry of Pariah Abbey, who informs me that these cultists call themselves the Supernal Dreamers, servants of Vaermina, the Daedric Prince of Nightmares.  The same cult behind the brutal attack on the Lion’s guard caravan, the deluding sickness of Constable Pascal in Keoglin, and now the infestation of much of Northern Stormhaven by this spawn of Oblivion.  

S.K